“He doesn't hear: Where the hell were you, Why didn't you come, or Call us. He doesn't have to. Dean's voice is down half an octave, thicker with bravado than he usually pitches it.” John checks his voicemail.

Disclaimer: Supernatural and its pretty, towel-clad boys
belong to people who are not me.

Warnings:
Some language. Flashbacks and italics like whoa.

Notes: An attempt to get into the head of one John Winchester, spawned
in reaction to multiple viewings of "Faith" and somewhat tinkered with after "Something Wicked."
Feedback/concrit/opinions always happily welcomed.

Keeping
Things Whole

"When
I walk
I
part the air
and
always
the
air moves in
to
fill the spaces
where
my body's been.

We
all have reasons
for
moving.
I
move
to
keep things whole."

—
Mark
Strand, "Keeping Things Whole"

i.

First
time's in a gas station restroom in North Carolina. The phone rings
inside his coat and he slips it out, hands still wet.

"I
know what happened to your wife,"
the voice says. "I know what happened to Mary."

The
line clicks off before he can strangle out a Who the fuck
is this, and he grips the edges
of the yellow-stained sink to keep himself from reeling.

No.
It can't be.

But
the other option is I know what happened,
and nothing else does.

How
does it have my number? is his
first, giddy thought. How the hell does it even know how to
use a phone?

He
presses 69. The number you have dialed is invalid. Please
hang up and try again. 69. The
number you have dialed is inva—. 69.
The numb—.

The
stalls get a beating and he tries to breathe and after a few minutes,
the air thins enough so that he can. He scrapes an expression back
together, walks out to catch the grin and the can of soda that Dean
tosses at him. "Ready to go?"

"Yes,
sir," is always, always the response.

- -

Why
now? he can't stop wondering.
Why now, after all this time?

He
calls every fucking name in his book and every number he can
remember, and no one knows anything. The library doesn't tell him
anything. The news and the obits don't tell him anything. After a
while, Dean stops giving him those sideways glances, and they go back
to chasing ghosts they can see.

- -

The
next time, it's 2:00 a.m. in a motel in Tennessee. "I
know what killed Mary. It's coming for you."

And
the next, "I'm coming for you. For your boys. You're
leading me right to them, John."

And
he stops answering his phone.

ii.

It
takes him weeks to track down Jericho, news clippings and obituaries
and hours spent in the library. Dennis Parks. Scott Nifong.
Dean helps some, then takes off for a job twenty miles south. John
keeps looking.

William
Durrell. Mark Brown. Nigel Long.

It
takes him four days to reach Jericho and the same number in hours to
decorate the motel room. News clippings. Missing persons flyers. Book
excerpts translated from Latin. Pictures of dead men dancing, of live
men burning. He locks the door and draws the curtains to keep anyone
curious enough from barging in to find a serial killer's tracks.

The
call comes after hardly a day. His clothes are still spilling out of
their bag, the lamp only just extinguished before he flicks it back
on and reaches blurrily for the phone. Done already. That's
my boy.

Over
the static comes: "Ohh, John, isn't he beautiful? Look,
he has your eyes."

"Mary?"
It's a lie, he knows it's a lie,
but it chokes out anyway, a half-dead prayer into the burning light.

Her
voice twists into something hollow and ugly. "Isn't he
beautiful, John?"

He's
prepared himself, but not for this. Not for the sudden irrational
pretense of Mary being here,
not for the monster, demon, whatever the fuck it is, to use
her against him. Hearing her voice
again—not a faded echo slipping from the edges of consciousness,
not some twisted accusation whispered to him at night, but her,
clear and joyful and, oh, god, alive—he's
not ready for this, and he flings the phone away before he can ask
the questions he knows it won't answer.

The
rest of the night is spent hanging cat's eye shells and drawing salt
circles three times thicker than they need to be.

And
when the caller ID flashes Dean,
he doesn't stop long enough to answer.

- -

There's
nowhere new to look, no possibility he hasn't rejected a hundred
times, and he knows better than to tread water until his legs become
dead weight. He turns back to the walls. Goes out to a pretty little
diner and flirts with the waitress, asks for a burger and fries and
her number, and oh by the way what do you know about that bridge out
there, something I hear about a ghost?

When
in doubt, go with restless spirits.

She
smiles and smudges a string of numbers onto a napkin and tells him,
don't listen to the kids they're just trying to scare each other,
nothing out there except bad vibes after what happened to poor
Constance Welch something to drink?

Constance
Welch.

Well,
that was easier than weeks of research.

It
takes him twenty minutes to convince Joseph Welch that he's a
reporter, another ten to figure out where Constance was buried. Easy.
Salt and burn tomorrow night.

He's
hungry enough to pick up a burger on his way back to the motel. Makes
it halfway through the lukewarm cardboard before his phone rings.

Caller:
Unknown.

He
barely touches the "talk" button before: He jerks
awake to the nightmare of his wife screaming too far away, can't get
to her in time, too late too late too late.

"Your
turn, John," the voice on the
other end tells him. "And when Dean comes, I'll be
waiting for him."

The
noise in the background is a mess of whispered threats, pleas and
taunts and laughter magnified a thousand times. And through them,
binding them together, a furious draft—one that, John suddenly
remembers, never quite dies. Not when the sun's beating down within a
twenty-mile radius, not when the air and dust are so thick that the
mixture could be sucked through straws. Not when a man half-blind
with loss wanders past in search of answers he's never found.

He
recognizes the wind.

So
this time, he doesn't ask. He tells.

"I'm
going to kill you, sonuvabitch."

He
grabs the keys and leaves the door to slam behind him.

- -

He
checks his messages on the way out of town, like some goddamn cowboy
riding off into the sunset while the girl he leaves behind voices
over her undying devotion to him. Exactly like that, actually,
except—

You
have three new messages.

"Dad,
just finished up this gig down in New Orleans. Turned out to be some
crazy Voodoo thing, ended up pissing off a bunch of loa. But, uh,
everything's fine, I'm gonna stop by Caleb's and then start heading
west. You need anything?"

"Dad,
it's me. I just left Caleb's and he says...he was saying something
about seein' a bunch of signs lately, weird things going on...I don't
know if it's our kind of deal, but, uh, he says to be careful. Give
me a call when you're done. I should be out there in a few days. All
right."

"Dad...where
are you? If you get this, if—if you're not hurt, call. Please."

—it's
his son, and he's not
riding off into the sunset, he's heading into battle, armed only with
tatters of grief-soaked knowledge and even less certainty. Three
things he's kept since Mary's death, three he hasn't stripped away
out of necessity over the constant shifting of what's normal and
familiar, and one of those—his journal—he's left behind. He tries
not to think about it, about losing it to the wrong hands. It's not
like he doesn't know the damn thing by heart anyhow.

He
tries not to think about the miles he'll be driving without Dean to
switch off when he starts swerving a little too wildly into the
neighboring lanes. Tries not to picture Dean doing the same.

The
sign rolling by tells him: Centennial Highway. Fuck.
He reaches for the salt-filled shotgun, lays it in the passenger
seat. Picks up the phone and dials the number by instinct.

"Dean,
something is starting to happen, I think it's serious. I need to try
to figure out what's going on. You may need to contact your brother,
tell him to watch out for himself. Do not come looking for me, not
until this is over. Be very careful, Dean—we're all in danger."

It's
not enough. Nothing he can say is enough, but this—this, he hopes,
will at least buy him time.

- -

He
makes it almost to Utah before his hand reaches for the phone again.One missed call.

"Dad...I'm
in California. And I...I picked up Sam. We're going to Jericho. If
you're there...don't leave. Wait for us."

Goddamn
it, Dean. What part of "do not come looking for me" was unclear?

Two
minutes. That's all it would take, is two minutes telling Dean not to
follow. The kid would listen, would understand on some level he's
always had that some things exceeded explanation.

But
Sammy's there, and Sammy asks questions. And he doesn't have the time
to come up with an answer that he can pass off as true.

He
settles instead. Lets them know without having to hear their voices,
without giving himself a chance to be weak.

"This
is John Winchester. I can't be reached. if this is an emergency, call
my son Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help."

iii.

Somewhere
between Kentucky and West Virginia, Jerry Panowski leaves him a
message to thank him for the help of his sons.

He's
pressed against the recessed archway as Sammy—Sam, now,
full-time—walks by, arms heavy with books. The look on his
face—John hasn't seen that kind of smile from him in a long, long
time.

It's
January, despite the weather's protests; Sam's shot up another inch,
his gait still adjusting to the extra length. Which is why, as he
rounds a corner, he's the one who ends up on the ground, looking up
at the girl, the contents of whose purse are lying scattered around him. Who, really,
would have drawn Dean's attention more than Sam's if things were the
way they've always been. But instead of hiding him in shadow, her
hair reflects the sun and lights him up the way he's always wanted to
be, and there's no one else to distract either from discovering the
other.

Jessica.
Her name is Jessica, he knows by May. She has her arm around his
waist as they leave the party, weaving their way through littered red
cups. "C'mon, baby. Let's go home."

And
he laughs softly and agrees, "Home."

- -

The
whole way home John thinks he's going to crash into something; that,
or go deaf. Sammy's altering between wide-eyed gurgling and short,
startled wails, thanks to the four-year-old bouncing excitedly in the
seat next to him.

"Dean,
stop poking your brother."

"But
Daddy, he's so—"

"I
mean it, Dean."

"But—"

"Dean
Winchester—"

"'kay,
fine."

The
pouting lasts about three seconds—a new record, John thinks—before
Dean pipes up with "he's all squishy" and from there, goes on to
wonder how soon babies can start playing football and to explain how
Sammy's lucky because he'll be the best big brother ever and I'm
gonna have to teach him everything
and if people are mean to him I'll protect him 'cause only I get to
pick on him and—

And
that covers the "deaf" part. The crashing part—well, Mary's
glowing.

She's
pale and her eyes have shadows beneath them and she's resting her
chin on the seat back, but her head's turned around the entire time,
looking at her two boys, and the smile playing over her face is far
deeper than anything exhaustion can break. "He's perfect, John,"
she'd said to him each time, and each time it had been true.

And
"keep your eyes on the road," right now, might as well be "make
those cattle over there fly."

She's
laughing now, agreeing that no, the dog probably wouldn't find Sammy
very tasty, and yes, Dean should probably watch them for a few days,
just to make sure. And John turns his head (never thought he'd be so
happy about a red light) and she meets his eyes and there,
he has everything he's ever wanted.

When
they pull up in the driveway, Dean sweeps into his arms, still full
of chatter.

And
Mary's the one to lift Sammy from his car seat and whisper, "Welcome
home, love."

iv.

He's
got cattle rot stinking into his bones and there goes another pair of
boots, but the job is done, at least, when he strips away his
muck-covered shirt and checks the phone.

Cattle
found drained of blood, the
headline had said. Fourth time in as many months.

The
chase had been a toss-up, either a distraction or a destination.
Spofford, Texas had never been the latter for anyone, and it hadn't
made the exception for him.

What
the folks called chupacabra was really a whole subspecies of Anasazi
shapeshifter, caught somewhere between snake and coyote. And this one
had put a hole in his leg and a serious dent in his supply of silver.
Amylou had wrapped him in a yard of gauze, teased him for hissing and
thanked him with pie, before waving him from her doorstep.

The
sky's starting to clear into a cold winter morning, and he wants to
save the message for later. After sleep, which his body desperately
wants. But never put off what you can do now
sticks with him from way before he even joined up, all the way from
warm pancake mornings before Sunday school, and he's never been one
to cave to his body anyway.

"Dad...I
know I've left you messages before. I don't even know if you get 'em.
But...I'm with Sam. And we're in Lawrence. And there's somethin' in
our old house. I don't know if it's the thing that killed Mom or
not...but...I don't know what to do. So...whatever you're doin', if
you could get here...please. I need your help, Dad."

And
the last time he let himself cave to his boys, Sammy ended up in the
hospital with a broken collarbone and Dean ended up putting a hole in
the wall after two days of laden silence.

But
still.

It
was Lawrence.

- -

"John,
you have to see this place."

"Whoa,
whoa, slow down there." and of course she doesn't, and he loves
that about her. He catches her in his arms, pulls her close and
breathes the magnolia of her perfume and wonders that she ended up
here, with him. Doesn't tell her I'd
follow you anywhere because he doesn't have to, and he
loves exactly that about her.

"So
where's this place I have to see?" She half-turns and looks at him,
laughs and steps away, reaches out to him.

"Kansas,"
she tells him.

He
takes her hand in his because he can't not,
never could from the first time he saw her. Can't look
away, he could never look away from her, not when she was fever-hot
and pale against rosier bedsheets, not when the glare in her eyes
would cause lesser men to falter. Not, he thinks, unless God turns
around one day and the devil takes the chance to rip us apart.

"Lawrence."

I'd
follow you anywhere.

- -

It
takes them little more than a week to clear away the debris from the
fire, another two to start rebuilding. Mike is the one to call the
insurance company, to collect the money in a blank envelope handed
wordlessly to his friend, to sell the land back to the developers.
Kate dresses the boys in the morning, sits them down to breakfast,
cajoles them into bed at night.

John
paces by the windows and starts at the groaning pipes. Sometime
during nights he creeps into the boys' room, and in the morning,
they'd find him hunched into a child-sized chair, one hand clenched
around the other, eyes fixed unmoving on his sons.

Mike
and Kate, they're nothing if not patient. They ask him what they can
do, how they can help, and avert their eyes when he tells them about
the whispers he hears during the night. They understand. He's been
through a terrible loss. He should think about seeing a doctor,
maybe. Someone who can help him through this.

Mary's
parents keep calling. They want to come to the funeral. They want to
see the boys, maybe take them to Wisconsin, just for a little bit,
John, until you're ready to take care of them again. They don't
believe, or won't
believe, that the same monster (What monster? It was a fire, John, an
accident.) that killed their beautiful daughter will be coming back,
for him, for his sons,
and they don't have a dog or an alarm system, they don't know how to
shoot a fucking gun, even. No. No, he tells them, over and over. Dean
watches wide-eyed as he screams it, no no nononono at the phone
because Mary, Mary is gone and he still wakes up every night when he
reaches over to stroke a strand of thin golden air and he can't—he
can't wake up to an empty crib, too.

He
lets their calls go to the answering machine. Asks Kate and Mike to
do the same.

By
the third week, something of his instincts has kicked back in. He
shakes himself awake enough to rejoin the boys. Takes Dean outside to
toss around a baseball, remembers to change Sammy every couple of
hours. They walk to the park together, a father with a son in each
hand, taking the long way every time to avoid the charred lot where
their lives burned to the ground.

Aren't
your kids just adorable, a stranger would beam.

They
take after my dead wife, he'd want to respond. He smiles instead, a
reflex soon to be inherited.

Sometime
during the fourth week, John slips awake to hushed panic. Dean's
missing. Shh. Don't wake John. No.
No no not again no.

And
since then, the boys have never needed anything else—no security
blankets, no teddy bears. just the solid, steady knowledge of the
other being there.

- -

Dean's
voice is teetering; halfway to hysteria is as close as he ever gets.
Last time John's heard the same was four years ago.

- -

Sam
doesn't spare him a second glance as he storms out the door, duffel
bag rubbing yet another hole in his too-loose jeans. Dean does—draws
his chin toward his shoulder and flits his gaze over. A second is all
it takes; in a second shines the raw doubt that John has never seen
cross those eyes. Sammy's, yes, countless times. But Dean's—

Sometime
between 2:00 and 3:00 he lets himself sleep, because who the hell was
he to drag Dean back from killing the day with as many shots as he
can. Because it wouldn't have worked anyway, he knows too damn well
now.

But
when his remaining son isn't in his bed in the morning, the terror is
every bit as new as it's familiar. He calls and walks, walks and
calls for miles, Glock gripped tighter and tighter until he finds a
Dean-shaped pile slumped onto a park bench. John strides up to shake
him awake, biting back the lecture screaming inches down his throat,
but in the moment that Dean struggles between sleep and groggy
wakefulness and lets slip a faint, gravel "Sammy?" he thinks he
hears his son—his real son, not the bright-natured kid who polishes
smiles into armor—for the first time in years.

So
he swallows the worry and tension and gut-twisting fear, and he lets
the gun drop. Props Dean up unsteadily on his shoulder and
half-carries him all the way back to the motel; tucks his boy into
the threadworn bed, murmuring a stream of reassuring lies that
gradually becomes I'm sorry I'm
sorry I'm sorry.

- -

"John
Winchester, I could just slap you. Why don't you go talk to your
children?"

I
want to.

I
want to see them.

I
want to see her.

You
have no idea.

He's
been accused of selfish
before, and he's long stopped trying to justify anything. Words from
strangers never sting quite as much after your kid slings the same at
you on his way permanently out the door.

v.

His
notes read: Superstition Mountain, just outside of Phoenix.
The Lost Dutchman Mine.

Or
it might be what they read. Right now, they're mostly covered in red
and sticking together, a mass of hasty scribbles fluttering weakly as
he creaks onto the faded motel bed.

No
mine. A damn possessive, very delusional spirit, though.

He's
trying to stitch himself up, biting the string off hard, when the
phone rings again. Dean,
he thinks, momentarily grateful.

It's
Jim. There's been a series of murders out in Illinois. Rockford
again. People going into an asylum and coming out insane.

He
could go. He could get there if he goes now. But the boys are closer
and his arm hurts like hell and he's not sure he can keep his eyes on
the road for the day or two it would take to drive there.

So
he picks up his phone, dials the number with his eyes half closed.
Hangs up.

Picks
up the phone again. Calls. Hangs up halfway through the first ring.

You're
leading me right to them, John.

Picks
up the phone, studies it. Reaches for the coordinates Jim left him.

Text
messages, huh?

vi.

It
hasn't stopped raining in the three days he's been there, and he's
starting to think that California might want to reconsider its
reputation.

Of
course, he wouldn't have picked Sacramento as a center of demon
activity, either. Especially not on a holiday, when the only suits
and ties he sees are in the barred store windows.

He's
been neglecting the voicemail for weeks. Last job led him up
mammoth—a detour from the obits he's been cross-checking for the
last month—to some kid with a sprained foot and a punk-ass attitude
and a reluctantly convincing story about being attacked by Sasquatch.
He didn't have to look long at the pictures before he knew it wasn't
good ol' Bigfoot. Hobbled the kid back down to the lodge, preparing
to dump him there, except.

Except,
well, the kid wasn't lying. Not entirely. There was a werewolf he
wasn't expecting, and it only took one night-sharpened swipe to knock
him off his feet, shotgun spinning into the hardened snow. Kid was
sharp enough to pick it up, scrambling, hair falling dark into his
eyes (Sam?), but
didn't know how to cock or aim. Stood there, fumbling, until John
finally, finally after
a second got his feet back under and shoved the kid out of the way
and blasted the werewolf with two rounds from the Colt he had tucked
into his jeans.

The
kid was half-sprawled on the snow, moving only to cram air down his
lungs. It took John another minute to make sure the thing was dead,
then to walk over with a hand out and a gentle, "Hey, kid, you all
right?"

"...'course,"
was the hesitant response as the kid dragged himself up, tried a
grin. "Always."

To
which John tossed a gruff "Let's go, then," and tried to ignore
the sudden sharp stab of Dean.

- -

But
he's in Sacramento now, getting close, he knows, because the demon's
stopped coming after him. It's not staying away, not quite yet; John
can feel the constant denseness of its hovering whenever he tracks
down another lead, puts together another translation. But it's
stopped coming. And that means he's getting close.

There's
no good time, exactly,
to listen to his boys worry at him, but the voicemail is full and he
punches through one message after another from Dean, Dean, an
uncomfortable Sam, an exasperated Dean, hesitant Dean, Dean and Sam
in all expressions across the spectrum.

We
need you. Where are you?

They're
looking for him. And they're close to finding him.

They
can't. Not until this
thing's been caught. Not until he knows more, at least. Enough to not
get them killed. So he walks the block to the pay phone, drops the
quarter in the slot, and tries to pretend that he's calling to keep
them away.

But
then Sam answers, and
he has to give his son something—an apology, a regret, an offer of
understanding—for the tears Missouri told him she saw. Sam
doesn't— he's angry. He has every right to be. He's hurting and
confused and aches for everything he's lost, remembered or not, and
there is no truce after all.

- -

At
first John leaves just to go, just to get away from the whispers and
stares and the neighbors ducking behind their papers whenever he
walked by, eyes full of sympathy or worse. He leaves because Mike and
Kate, they won't even consider the idea that something killed Mary,
that something could just as easily slip in and take his boys away
from him too. He goes because of what he finds, the books on fires
that come not quite out of nowhere, the things that Missouri sees in him and
knows. He runs because if they're on the move, they're harder to pin
down, and maybe, maybe the thing won't know where to find them.

He
leaves, and he tells himself that it isn't permanent. That he just
needs to kill the thing that took Mary, to make sure it won't touch
his family again.

He
wraps Sammy in too many blankets and straps him into the back seat,
settles Dean down with a toy car and a soft foam football and tells
him that they're going on a trip together. Tells him "it's a
surprise" instead of "don't know where."

A
week on the road and it's an escape, an excuse, a much-needed
reprieve from the endless cycles of who what how why that follow him
from Lawrence. A month brings nagging and questions, but is
ultimately excusable. A year, and it becomes a way of life, a
mission, a sacrifice.

He
takes the charms and amulets that Missouri gave him, hangs them
around the boys' necks and twists them around their arms, even if he
only halfway believes in them himself. Tries to explain to Dean that
he doesn't have to memorize an address or a phone number now, only
his name, and sometimes not even that. He makes sure that Sammy
always wakes up to him or Dean close by, because nothing else is even
remotely familiar anymore and the baby's first instinct these days is
to cry for the steadiness they've lost.

He
never meant for it to turn into what it becomes, a relentless hunt;
he wanted to track the goddamn monster down and put an end to it once
and for all. He never meant for it to go on as long as it does, to
consume him as much as it does, to make life for his boys as
unsettled as it does. But the thing is harder to find than he
realizes and he ends up learning more than he ever wants to about
things that shouldn't exist, things that do to other families what
that monster did to his. He runs into a poltergeist in one of the
Dakotas and ends up killing it—and from there on, he doesn't stop.
And before he knows it, Dean needs to be registered for school and
Sammy's starting to talk and really, it shouldn't surprise him that,
aside from "dee" and "da," one of his baby's first words
sounds suspiciously like "why?"

- -

In
the time since then, he's never stopped wondering whether he's made
the wrong choice. Ninety percent of the time, he's sure that he has.
But he's started this, and he needs to finish it, needs it as much as
he needs to be a good soldier, a good father, a good man. Needs it to
be those things. So he focuses on the after, and after, and after,
and it's always just out of his reach. And the boys—they're almost
getting used to it. Dean's stopped needing that minute in the morning
to orient himself after waking up in the sixth unfamiliar bed in as
many days. And Sammy—well, Sammy doesn't know much of anything
else, does he?

They're
good kids, he tells himself sometimes to keep away the doubts, to
keep his head down as he passes the neon liquor signs on every street
corner. And sometimes he justifies this life by teaching them the
best he can to protect themselves, by making sure that they're always
well-fed and armed and know how to say "please, ma'am" and "thank
you, sir" and to recite their prayers, even if he doesn't join
them. Sometimes he hates himself for giving Dean keys and a gun and
nothing else while he chases shadows for days longer than he means
to, for the way that the terrible guilt weighing inside him allows
Dean only a gruff "s'not your fault, kiddo" by means of
apology—one that he's not sure if the boy even hears.

And
the only thing he can do, the only thing he can promise Mary, is that
he won't let them out of his sight again.

- -

"Dad,
is that you?"

But
Dean, well. Dean does what he's told. Sometimes John thinks maybe he
shouldn't, that his son is a man now and deserves more than cryptic
coordinates hunted down like treasure maps every few weeks. But with
Dean, it's easy. Dean's got Mary's smile and her eyes and her
optimism, and he knows that "write these names down" really
means "I'm miss you and I'm proud of you, son."

He hopes so, anyway.

And for
days afterward, John survives on the echoed memory of their voices.

vii.

He's
in Nebraska this time, tracking down a reaper. Not the demon, not
even a demon, but
years of hardened instinct have made it impossible to ignore death
when it's tripping over his door. He's heard about the preacher. He's
heard about the wife. He's stopped believing in miracles a long time
ago.

Locals
said to avoid the northeast border of the O'Hanlon place, that
strange things go on there. People die there.

Of
boredom, maybe.

The
truck is the smoothest ride he's had since the Impala, but with dust
eddying dry around him and nothing but acres of corn on either side,
he wants something different. Faster,
he thinks. A little color.
Cruise control might be nice.

A
convertible flashes by, bright red. The driver puts his arm around
his passenger, her blond hair dancing in the air.

Black
is better.

Somewhere
in the truck bed, his phone rings. He can't hear it. He tossed it
there so that he wouldn't hear it. So that even if he did, he
wouldn't answer it.

They
can't be a part of this.

Fifteen
minutes later, he pulls off onto a side road, nothing more than a
fissure in the fields. Picks the phone up from the back.

You
have one new message, the
machine tells him.

Your
son is dying, the message tells
him.

It
also says I won't let him,
but it's stretched and fraying and John can see the raw edges coming
apart. Sammy won't let his big brother die. He doesn't know what to
do. He doesn't ask for help.

I
need to keep them safe.

So
he doesn't drive the sixty miles between him and the hospital, and he
doesn't dial the number blindly when he picks up the phone. He calls
Joshua and tries to pretend it's nothing but a job. He can't. Can't
keep the lighting out of his voice.

He
can make damn sure that the boys get the message about Roy LeGrange.

Fair
hasn't been a part of his vocabulary for a long damn time, and it
certainly isn't about to bother him now.

There's
a particularly vicious succubus he can send Josh's way if the man
doesn't do as politely requested.

- -

A
week passes, and John doesn't sleep. He wears the carpet even thinner
in the roadside motel. He empties five more bullets than absolutely
necessary into a skriker, even though silver doesn't come cheap these
days. He staggers into bed at night and walks to retrieve his truck
in the morning.

Then,
finally, something in the paper. Wife of local preacher
dead, it says. Pastor
LeGrange has suspended his services until further notice.

Your
son is alive, he knows, and he
can't stop the inkling of pride from growing. The reaper's not a
worry anymore.

It's
another two days before his phone rings again. "Dad.
Sam's a lying little bastard. Don't listen to him.
I'm fine."

He
doesn't hear: Where the hell were you, Why didn't you come,
or Call us.
He doesn't have to. Dean's voice is down half an octave, thicker with
bravado than he usually pitches it. It's barely held together.

But
it's there.

The
day after, he throws his weapons back into truck, slams the door, and
leaves the dust behind.

viii.

Somewhere
between Nebraska and Nevada he loses track of the boys, and this
terrifies him on a level deeper than anything. The demon's close—it's
running the hell away from him now and that means he's close.
The air starts to taste like rusted metal, the streetlights stop
flickering always just as he comes across them, and he loses track of
time and day and anything outside of directions and miles.

He
follows it: over car-jammed freeways and back roads and paths partly
cleaved into wilderness; into alleys and corners where night has always been
the only constant; onto playgrounds and soccer fields where parents
dart their nervous eyes between him and their children; through towns
with one gas pump and no crossroads, baked into silence by the
ancient desert sun. He follows it with the thought of Mary,
Mary, Mary pounding into the
accelerator, with blood and fire and death splattering onto the
windshield.

He
stops checking in with Jeff. Then Caleb. Then Jim. He stops spinning
his web of contacts, and the boys slip through.

And
when he realizes it, there's nothing he can do. Dean can
more than take care of himself
and Sammy's too smart to fall for anything
and They'll look out for each other
have their limits, but he's close,
and he consoles himself with the thought of after.

After
this, I'll go back to them. After this, we can finally settle down.
After this.

There
is no after. You haven't given them an after.

He
finds the demon, or thinks he does; it's waiting for him. He doesn't
see the trap until he's stepped into it.

He
gets out, just barely, cut and bleeding but alive, and he's not
really sure which sends him reeling toward the nearest bar.

- -

She
meets his eyes and he doesn't ask, doesn't want to know anything
about her, why she's negotiating drinks over a vomit-stained counter
in a place that doesn't exist for all intents and purposes. She's
straight and rigid and nothing like the softness around Mary's eyes
shines in hers, and he doesn't ask, doesn't want to know. She meets
his eyes, and no one else's, and that's all he needs tonight.

She
follows too easily when he asks; they don't take the time for
pleasantries. They're efficient, all skin and sweat and nameless
snarls and heavy breaths not quite in rhythm, and fuck
he's missed this, scratches and bites left in favor instead of
threatening to rip him into pieces. He pushes against her harder and
deeper and when it comes, the name that tears out of his throat is
Mary, Mary,
always Mary.

And
later, the phone hums muffled against the denim on the floor, eleven,
twelve, thirteen times before finally giving up. He doesn't try to
answer. He doesn't have one to give.

He's
not entirely sure what he's hunting anymore, the thing that killed
Mary or the memory of her dying.

ix.

The
message is this:

"...we
think we got a serious lead on the thing that killed Mom. So, uh,
these warehouses. 1435 West Erie. Dad, if you get this, get to
Chicago as soon as you can."

And
between the relief of knowing they're okay and the promise, finally, of prey for their years-long hunt, there's no room left for
hesitation. He packs and he goes, and he tries to belivehopewish that
this, one way or another, will finally be the end.

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